Old Wounds
by neunjapp
Summary: You never think you're going to get picked. There are so many other people. Better alternatives. Trained killers, cocky volunteers, especially here in Four. But, as ever, the odds refuse to lean in my favour. When nobody steps up in my place what option do I have? Kill or be killed. That's it. That's the only choice I have left to make and, it sure as hell isn't an easy one.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for clicking on my story! I would love to hear from you so please leave a review/follow and I'll totally give you (imaginary) cookies! Enjoy!**

The square in District 4 was, in my opinion, far too small, and too close to the sea. It meant that every reaping day I not only had to worry about the chance of being forced to my death on national television, but I also had to worry about not slipping on the slimy moss that coated the ground. It was like the sea had just deposited all of it's seaweed onto the cobbled streets, and it made looking calm and collected just that bit more difficult. I walk next to my only friend in the world Clara and we quickly join hands in a desperate attempt to keep upright as we venture through the masses of people heading towards the square. "That's three now." she comments to me quietly as another kid falls. He looks about seventeen, older than most of us, so he really should take the fall with some sort of grace, but he doesn't; the second he hits the floor he's sick. We barely have time to gasp in shock before the peacekeepers have swarmed on him and pulled him off out of the view of the cameras. The commotion is met with the sounds of two adults gasping and trying to reach past the long velvet rope that separates them from us. See, that was probably the worst part of the reaping:trying to look strong for your parents. I never had to bother though, and neither did Clara, we were both from Medler house. It was District Four's community home, so we didn't have any parents to be brave for, that was probably the only advantage of the rotten place.

"Sign in here." my thoughts are broken as a peace keeper holds my wrist out for me and pricks my finger. The amount of blood it draws is minuscule but a sickly looking girl to my right turns very pale once she sees it. _I really hope she doesn't get picked._ After that we move on quickly and are settled into our pen. This is my second time around and Clara's third so we should be in different pens but the peacekeepers don't notice so we stay put in the thirteen year old pen because it's closer to the back so we can leave faster. "Hey," Clara nudges me to get my attention and points up at the people taking to the stage. My eyes become fixed on our escort, Marina Waters, who grins down at the square. "It's a miracle she can see out of those things." I whisper back referring to her eyelashes which extend at least thirty centimetres from her face. I wonder just how she is managing to keep her eyes open when she taps on the microphone; a terribly loud static cuts through the square which prompts a quick silence. I instinctively grab Clara's hand, she gives a small squeeze back and we wait. We wait all the way through the usual clip from president Snow, reciting a story that we already know and hold our breath as Marina steps over to the bowl. My name is in twenty five times and Clara's is in 30. It seems like a-lot because it is. If you were in a community home your name had to go in twenty times at the age of twelve and it went up by five every year. The reason was pretty simple; District 4 had plenty of volunteers, they went into the games practically every year and so most times of the year the amount of times your name went in meant nothing. And it's an easy way to get food so we did it. Still, it doesn't stop the butterflies in my stomach. Marina dips her long clawed nails into the bowl and swipes around three or four times before she grabs a slip. She walks back over to the microphone, unfolds it slowly and clears her throat before announcing,

"Freya Medler." **_Shit. Shit, Shit._** I begin to repeat over and over again in my head. I look to Clara who has tears welling in her eyes but lets my hand go after one final squeeze, "Don't cry." She mutters quietly and I realise how close I've come. My lower lip is trembling and my hands are shaking. I force myself to stop and with a quick nod from Clara I ever so slowly move forward. Nobody will look at me as I exit my pen, nobody except for Marina who smiles widely, "Come on now!" she almost cheers from the stage. I would move faster but all of a sudden the only thing I can think about is the moss. Parents or no parents, tripping over now would be a terrible mistake so I keep my eyes trained on my feet and step carefully. It must be because I'm looking down that I bump into the girl in front of me. She's just emerged from the seventeen year old pen and by the looks of her she's shaking more than me. I look up at her and regain my balance. "I-I-" she starts looking out to her right where the adults stand. I see a few of them nod at her, their eyes urge her on harshly. "I-I..." she tries again but the words just wont form. She looks to the adults again and they look as though they want to kill her. The girl shakes her head, "I'm sorry, I can't." she says and it's barely a whisper that escapes from her throat. She steps back into the pen and I see the adults look down in shame. Some of them even step back into the crowd to hide their faces from the camera. "Right then." Marina starts, clearly flustered at that anti-climax, "Up you come." I realise she's speaking to me and I move faster now, despite the moss, and make it to the stage. As soon as I'm up she pulls me to the microphone,

"Well that was rather an exiting start wasn't it." She beams, I nod. _Her eyelashes just look_ _so_ _heavy up close. "_ Come, come, tell us your name." she prompts, I lean into the microphone and speak,

"Freya Medler." I say, although I'm not sure why, everyone already knows.

"Medler that sounds familiar." She wonders out loud. I nod,

"It's the name we all get at the community home." I explain, staring at Clara for approval. She nods, barely holding back tears. I guess we both know that I'm practically already dead.

Marina smiles and asks the audience to a give a round of applause. They do, and the male tribute is selected,

"Brian Northfield." She calls and I see the sickly boy emerge from his pen. He's older than me but he looks wafer thin and pale. His parents who I briefly saw earlier let out a small sob and clutch to one another. _That's why it's better for me,_ I think, _there's nobody to leave behind._ Well there is someone, I think of Clara and how we'll probably never get to talk properly to one another ever again. I think about how she's going to have to watch my death. I can't really tell who's come out of our situation worse, me or her? I don't get to think about it for long before I hear Brian hit the floor. He's fallen twice and even Marina won't help him with the pale white sick that's travelled down his shirt. I hear a disappointed sigh from behind me and turn to see Finnick Odair pinching the bridge of his nose in apparent embarrassment at his tributes for this year. I feel another emotion overwhelm my terror, it's anger. Yes, Brian was a mess if we had ever had one but he was justified in it. So I cross the stage without thinking and offer him my hand. He looks like he's about to burst into tears so I repeat Clara's words to him, "Don't cry." I'm quiet but he hears me and swallows back a wail. He takes my hand and we manage to make it back to the centre of the stage. Once I'm sure he's capable to stand I let him go and walk back over to my spot.

"How sweet." Marina cries and claps her gloved hands spurring a weak round of applause from the audience. It's drowned out mostly by the careers laughter. I would be embarrassed but my concentration is too focused , on Finnick Odair who I can see out of the corner of my eye watching me carefully, almost as if he's sizing me up. I do my best to ignore it and am grateful when the peacekeepers emerge out of nowhere to escort Brian and I into the justice building. From there we're crowded into two different rooms. I'm taken aback by how grand it is at first; the azure walls, and golden rimmed seats, but then after I've been alone long enough for my reality to sink in it just seems suffocating. There is a fish tank though which I watch to take my mind of things for a moment. I just wish I could be one of them, you know just stay in the tank, float about and not have worry about about anything. But, I am not a fish, I'm just a very, very dead girl. The tears are starting to return to my eyes when Clara bursts through the doors. The peace keeper tells us we have ten minutes so I cling to her tightly.

"You can do this." She tells me and I'm shocked at the honesty in her voice. I pull out of her embrace to tell her that there's logically no way I can but she has followed my line of thought and stops me with a shake of her head, "You're fast Freya, You- you're smart." She tells me taking one of my hands in her own and squeezes it as if that will get the message through to me. I nod along with her to make things easier on both of us. It's probably better that at least one of us gets to have hope. "You're going to beat this, I _know you will."_ starts up again. I senselessly nod back and look back towards the fish. "I, I wish I had something to give you." She says, I look back at her and can tell she's getting a bit more panicked as our time is running out, "It's fine." I tell her and she looks up at me. "Tell me you're going to make it." she says, I start to shake my head but she digs her nails into my hands in desperation, _"Tell me."_

I steady my voice carefully and say it, "I'll make it." and I know it's a lie.

With that the peacekeeper renters the room and pulls Clara away from me, "I'll see you soon!" she calls over her shoulder, I watch until the last flash of her blonde hair disappears down the corridor. The door clicks closed and I'm about to cry again when it flies back open. Two complete strangers walk in and I almost tell them they've got the wrong room when I remember: the wail when Brian was called, they're his parents. They stand in silence and the mother clings to her husbands hand before he clears his throat. "I,- We" he corrects himself, "We want to thank you for what you did back there." they refer to me helping Brian up. I shake my head slightly, It was the right thing to do. "No problem." I reply, my voice sounds stronger than it should, but I guess that's a good thing in this situation. They turn around to leave when the wife suddenly speaks up, she looks twice as tearful but speaks, "I know I shouldn't ask you this but- he's my son. He's- He's all I've got-" she starts to weep again and her husband pulls her close apologising to me, "Keep him safe, please... I just don't want him to be scared when..." She begs from where she stands. I know in reality there is nothing I can do to help. There is no way to save him, even if I was a career but when someone is weeping so much you can't help but re-assure them. "He won't be." I say. It's not much, I practically just confirmed their son was going to die but I assume they already know that. They already know that we're both going to die and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. Still I must've done something to re-assure them as they leave they thank me and leave the room.

From there I sit in silence. The visitor time is one hour in total before we board the train. I watch the fishes again.


	2. Chapter 2

I have to say the train does take my mind of things for a moment. Sure, I'll probably be dead by the end of the month but did you know this thing can travel at hundreds of kilometres and hour and _absolutely nothing_ moves. Like seriously, _nothing._ I first found out when the landscape of District Four zips past the window and I wasn't even aware that the train had started up, there was no loud engine rumble or small vibrations. It was amazing. It still is, I think to myself as I pile small shot glasses, that I found on another table, on top of one another. They don't move a bit. I lean out of my chair to look over at my partner,

"Hey, Brian." I call, glancing at my small tower with pride. He doesn't turn from where he is staring out the window. I can see a small tremor return to his shoulders as we go into a tunnel. We will never see District Four again. I don't like to think about that so I reach for a grape in the fruit bowl I had been stuffing myself from and launch it at his head. It goes in the general direction but ends up splatting onto the fresh white wall in a violet smudge. "Whoops." I mutter to myself and Brian turns around. His eyes are quite puffy but he shares a small smile with me. Seeing that I've got his attention I beckon him over to sit opposite me, he complies and for a few seconds we both stare at the glass arrangement. "Freya, what are we doing?" he asks after it gets slightly awkward and I bend down to get level with the glasses, he follows my lead. "They're not moving." I whisper and he nods,

"Erm, yeah." He doesn't sound as fascinated as me so we both get up and settle into our chairs.

"I thought it was pretty cool." I mumble, a small smile returning to my face, he doesn't send one back.

"How do you do that?" he asks and I launch into telling him exactly how I made my little pyramid,

"It's pretty simple, you just find some glasses and-"

"No-" he stops me with a small shake of his head, "How is it that you're not scared." he says. I shrug and keep adding to my glass formation,

"I am. I'm actually terrified but there's no point in thinking about it." I tell him. Suddenly stacking the glasses seems like a stupid idea and I'm about to dismantle my entire structure when Marina glides into the room. I think she was originally smiling but by the time her eyes have darted from the glasses to the grape stain she's pretty mad.

"What have you done?" She starts rushing over to my side. I can't help but start to laugh as her eyelashes are shaking, _they're visibly shaking with rage_. My laughter doesn't do much to get her to like me but I don't really care. "Take them down. Now" She demands before her voice settles back into something a-lot more rehearsed, "We wouldn't want the glasses falling and anyone getting cut." she smiles sweetly. I scoff,

"Yeah, because a cut is really the worst thing that could happen here." I snap back. I can't stop myself because I mean we're being sent to our deaths. What I have said must've reminded Brian of our bleak prospects as he turns a shade paler once again and his green eyes widen with fear. Marina huffs and takes the glasses down for me,

"Now look at what you've done." She sighs, looking over to Brian who is shaking again. There's nothing much I can do to help so I just stalk off to another compartment in the train after I mumble a brief apology towards Brian. Only when I get out of the dining room compartment do I realise I have no idea where I am going, my room could be any number of the large dark oak doors that line the corridor. I'm in the middle of considering whether or not to turn back and ask someone for help when a blonde haired girl points towards one of the rooms further along the corridor. I nod to her in thanks rather than speaking because I know she cannot reply. Maybe the Avoxes had it worse than all of us, if my tongue was cut out I would want the Capitol dead, or myself for that matter. But they had to serve them day after day for the rest of their lives. Worse yet they couldn't even tell anyone about it. I move past her and into my room quickly before I have to look at her for much longer, I don't want her serving me. I don't want any of this. It's only when my door clicks closed that I realise I am just as scared as Brian. Shoulders shaking I make my way towards the large blanketed bed and settle onto it. I think that maybe if I lay there for long enough and close my eyes I can do it, I can sleep all of this away. It doesn't work, I can't even keep them closed for five minutes before the adrenalin kicks in. I feel completely trapped in the room, there aren't even any windows to look out of, _or jump,_ my brain quips. No, I wouldn't jump even if I wanted to, I would come home from this, for Clara. Or I would at least make it to the Capitol for her. Yeah, I think that's the best way to approach this; one step at a time. So I make my way out of the room and head towards the roof. I recall Marina bragging that the train had open roof facilities when we were driving into the station. She had said a-lot more but I wasn't really listening as I was cramped between Brian and Finnick; two people that I didn't have the energy to speak to at the time. I breathe away that memory as I make it to the top of the stairs. It's just about turning into the afternoon, although you wouldn't know it as the sky was so bleak. In fact it was quite cold too which was unusual for the summer but the cold air helped me to concentrate, it gave me something else to focus on.

There's a small glass table with four chairs in the middle of the deck so I take a seat. Better yet the table is laid with fresh fruit just like the ones downstairs, so I begin to eat again. The circumstances were pretty awful but I do have to say the snacks were pretty great. I'm just about to reach for a particularly soft looking peach when I hear his voice,

"I hear you've made good friends with Marina." Finnick remarks, settling down into the chair next to my own. I take the peach quickly and look at it rather than him as I reply,

"We're practically sisters." Finnick doesn't say anything, he knows I'm lying

"Okay, she probably hates me." I admit looking straight ahead.

"It could be the grape throwing, or the making your district partner cry." He comments airily, not taking his eyes of me. I shrug and look up at him,

"You didn't seem to care much during the reaping." I say because it's true, Finnick had made his interest in both of his tributes pretty obvious when he sighed in discontent. He laughs slightly at my comment,

"I have a feeling you're going to hold onto that one for a long time." he notes sarcastically. I place the peach down on the table with a dull thud,

"To be honest I don't really think I have a long time to hold onto it for, so you probably don't need to worry about that." my comment puts our conversation onto a new low and I don't know what to say afterwards. Finnick, however, does,

"I wouldn't count you out that quickly." I look up at him to try and find if he's being sarcastic or if he's just lying to me. He doesn't seem to be as he looks me dead in the eyes.

"Well, not until we scope out the competition." I inwardly wince, I don't want to scope anyone out. Because that would make things a bit too real, I'm about to tell Finnick I'm fine here on the roof when he takes my hand and gently pulls me along with him to the exit. I tug back instantly and grab my peach from the table before I walk on my own pointedly by his side. I think he's smiling by the time we make it downstairs, "Half the girls in four would die to hold my hand." He gloats, receding back into the same arrogant victor I saw at the reaping. I roll my eyes and take a step further to the other side of the corridor to further prove my point, "I'm wounded." he says, holding the door to the main sitting room open. I would reply but the words dry up on my tongue as I catch Marina's glare in my direction, "You found her then." she directs to Finnick and he nods, settling onto the sofa directly beside Marina. Her anger seems to dissipate after that and she flicks the projector on quickly. I want to head towards the empty chair next to the couch because at least I'd put some distance between myself and the others but Brian looks terrible again so reluctantly I take up the space between him and the edge of the couch and wait for the commentators to begin.

I don't take any real notes the same way Marina does but quite a few of the tributes stand out; there's a girl from seven who looks like a far younger version of Joanna Mason which probably isn't a good thing for me, a boy from one who seems far too confident and obviously the pair from two who, as usual, look bloodthirsty as ever. The girl even has a long thin scar extending from her temple to just under her mud coloured eyes. I look away when she stares directly into the camera. It's stupid, I know she can't reach through the screen and kill me. But I can help but feel like she's going to be a problem for me in the arena. _The arena,_ I hadn't even considered what it could be. Yesterday the arena was so far away from my point of view that I didn't even think it was worth imagining and now it's the place where I'm going to die. Then I think that they must be playing this clip back in Four too. That somewhere in the depths of that old rotten community home Clara must be watching the other tributes too, sizing them up against me, as Finnick said 'scoping out the competition.' I wonder if we've both come to the same conclusion: There's no way I'm making it out of this alive.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello! So sorry for the terribly late upload- exams have been wild. But here it is! Hope you enjoy and thank you so much for the reviews, here's to many more!** **(I hope!)**

If I thought the train was fancy, the Capitol itself was something else. Colours exploded from every crack and crevice of the city; nothing was bland or boring like Medler House back in Four. Not to mention the people. I can't even think of a way to describe them; in short, Marina's look was tame compared to some of the outfits on display there. My prep team took the prize for most over the top. They consisted of a team of six, two of whom were the most important. Uncials, a short fat green man with balding yellow hair, and Fenwick, a tall, thin, stern looking woman. At first I hated them outright after they waxed and plucked every individual hair off my body. Which hurts far more than you would think. But once the worst parts were over I began to like Uncials for the way he sort of bobbled around the room restlessly arranging dyes and combs whilst Fenwick snapped at him every now and then in her ridiculous Capitol accent. Every time she did it her head would shake with disapproval so much her wig of wiry purple curls would slide slightly further to the left. Their 'tall and small' act was some form of comic relief for me in the midst of what was probably going to be the last few days of my life. I know Clara would've laughed too.

 _She'll laugh when you tell her all about it_. I remind myself harshly. Ever since I'd arrived in the Capitol I had decided to set upon coming home. If I was going to die I wasn't going to do it like Brian will, I will not be afraid. Well I probably will be but not showing that fear became key. So I went through the makeover with the mindset of surviving. Every time I felt like wallowing in a pit of despair I forced myself to suck it up and remember who was waiting for me at home. Especially when it came to the chariots. District 4 often went to the parade scantily clad in knots of rope. When Fenwick dropped her hands from my eyes I saw that this year that's not what was happening. It was _even worse_. I was stood, staring at myself naked and covered with a grand total of three large seashells and a net with a fine sprinkling of sand on my skin. The silence in the room is almost deafening until I realise my prep team are waiting on an excited squeal or nod of approval. They get none I simply look myself up and down and ask where the rest of the costume is. To this I receive a large bout of laughter which I do not join in with. Either way nobody notices my confusion as they pin my black curls tightly to my skull so that I can't even hide behind my hair. _Breathe_ , _don't cry_. I remind myself and follow my team of stylists towards the door. Something of my discomfort must show on my face either way though as one of the trainee stylists hands me a robe. I nod gratefully and leave the room by their side. From there I'm escorted to the floor under the training centre which is essentially one large pen for the horses. I rush past my stylists and get to the chariot as quickly as possible before they see the robe. I'm not certain but I'm guessing they won't appreciate me hiding their hard work. I meet Brian already standing by the horses; they've had the decency to not cover him in shells, rather he's draped in net. Still he's got his chest on display, which due to it's pale, thin appearance, isn't a great sight. I pretend not to realise and instead pat our golden brown horses instead.

"I'm guessing you got it worse than I did." He mentions, looking the capitol robe up and down. I realise I'm clinging to the silken green fabric a bit too tightly. I shrug,

"You're guessing right."

His lips are about to form a response when Fenwick bursts into the space by my side. She clasps her clawed hands in tightly strained anger and whips the gown off, "Do you want sponsors or not?" She hisses into my ear and I would grace her with a response if I had the awareness to listen to her, instead I catch the scarred girl from two sniggering at me with the pair from one. I envy her silver armoured body and want more than anything to go and rip her costume off her back, along with several centimetres of her skin. Then we'd see who was laughing. Of course that doesn't happen; I just keep my eyes downcast and allow myself to be led into the back of the chariot. The music blares from behind the doors that burst open several horse lengths in front of us, along with the roars from the crowd. When I look forward it's only to try and catch a glimpse at the potential sponsors but instead I catch the eye of the girl from two again. She's laughing, almost hysterically and mouths something to me. It's impossible to make out over the sound of the crowd but it doesn't take a genius to figure out it's definitely not nice. Instinctively I scowl at her and cross my arms over my chest. She could well kill me in three days but I was determined to not look down again.

"Smile!" Fenwick forces out between gritted teeth after she delivers a quick jab to my exposed back. I jump and almost fall off the chariot as it starts to move, but I listen to her advice and force a smile onto my face. It's a smile so tight I can feel my cheeks burn. They must see how stupid this is, how stupid my stylist and prep team and outfit are. For a terrible moment I convince myself they'll all laugh at me just like the careers did. Every muscle in my body tenses the second I leave the safety of the pen, but I couldn't be more wrong about my presumptions. They shriek, some even faint at the sight of us. At first I become drunk in my small victory over the girl from two who has definitely stopped laughing. The Capitol were paying attention to me, and here attention means life. So I lap it up, and do everything I could remember seeing Finnick do. I grin and wave at them. I even start to blow kisses as we get closer to the city centre. They reach up to grab my kisses as if they are a tangible thing, and by the time we reach the city centre the girl from two is the one scowling. My small win boosts my confidence yet again and I go as far as to wink at her. But somebody else catches my wink and sends one back; an older Capitol man with wrinkled eyes and a balding head. He looks me up and down like I'm a particularly nice looking cut of meat. I don't feel nice at all, I feel like I want to jump off this chariot and flee the centre all to get away from that man's look. _How could Finnick like this?_ But I force myself to look away from the man and ignore his gaze, instead settling my own back on the girl from two. She glares, and I smirk back.

That smirk, however, is wiped right off my face once we get off the chariot and she materialises next to where I stand as I brush down one of my horses. She's smiling slightly but I know it's just as false as my grin was when I entered the city centre.

"What?" I say, my voice impressively strong for somebody who's vital organs are all exposed to a trained killer. She steps slightly closer to where I stand but I don't back off.

"Blythe." she introduces herself and sticks out her hand. It takes a moment but I realise I'm supposed to take it so I do but it was a mistake as she squeezes it so hard I'm sure she's broken at least two bones, "My mentor told me to tell you, you can have an alliance with us." She smiles sweetly but the hatred is still present in her grey eyes. An alliance with the careers?

"You want me?" I reply, removing my hand from her grasp. She shakes her head, sending her crimped dirty blonde hair flying,

"Personally, no. But if you want to last more than the first hour..." She smirks eyeing up my jugular, "I would strongly advise it."

I have no response but it doesn't matter as she turns on her heel and returns to her team. _Team_. I suddenly feel the presence of my own behind me and feel grateful when they wrap me up in the silk gown again. As she reties the front I look to Marcella for approval; she gives it in the form of a small excited shriek, "They adored you Freya!" she exclaims, leading us towards the lift. That's the first time she'd actually approved of anything I'd done since the reaping. At that the rest of the prep team chipped in with various praises directed mainly at my stylists but some are for me. For a brief moment I almost feel pleased. Back in Medler house I never got any praise for anything ever. So for a second I forget that the praise is coming from the same people that will observe my murder like it's some kind of sport. But only for a second, because I doubt I could take any more pats on the backs or nods of approval in good humour when I see Brian looking so disgusted and alone in the corner of the elevator. He's not speaking but I know exactly what he's thinking, and it's probably the same thing Clara's thinking back in four after she sees what I was like in that chariot; When I die in that arena, I'll have no dignity to die out with me.

If my sudden unresponsive mood does show through, nobody cares enough to notice it. Brian doesn't make any effort to talk to me and Finnick is nowhere to be seen. I ask Marcella where he is but she just descends into an obvious blush and fans her porcelain skin, blustered that I don't already know. But now I do, and I feel even more disgusted at my mentor. At this stage I'd rather have district twelve's mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, than the Capitol's golden boy. Haymitch was drunk out of his mind most of the time but at least he was present. I guess I could always go and find Aspen, our female victor. But she's Brian's mentor and I don't want to be glared at any-more. Heading back to my room is the best and only option I have. Time becomes far longer when you're alone and with all that was going on I couldn't feel relaxed enough to sleep or occupied enough to stop over thinking everything. After only a few minutes alone I think so fast that I can barely keep up so I do what most people do and end up heading towards the shower. It feels pretty good to see the sand swirl down the drain along with other sparkles and glitter that were stuck to my body, and with the fresh scent of water lilies flooding my nostrils I force myself to switch off the lights and head to bed. I needed to sleep today off and keep moving forwards. God knows it was only going to get worse tomorrow at training. After a few excruciating hours I feel the heaviness of my thoughts slip away from my brain for a moment and I know I'm about to sleep... About to, until I feel my door being knocked from outside. It's so loud that annoyance floods through my veins. Who would come knocking on someone's door at, I check the clock on my bedside, at 2:30 AM? If it was Brian he could take his high and mighty judgement elsewhere. I force my eyes closed and roll over to face the wall in defiance. I know he won't be able to see it but the idea of pissing him off provides me with enough comfort to ebb my way back to the warm fuzzy zone I was in before. That is until I hear a small pip, and the sound of my door sliding open. Nobody else but myself and the avoxes had the code.

My body reacts before my voice and I'm bolt upright in my bed before I can yell at the intruder. His shape isn't difficult to make out, it was postered on almost every add and magazine in the Capitol. I slump back and cross my arms,

"You're a little late." I say, not bothering to hold back the irritation in my voice. Finnick stops for a moment then flicks on the lights. I squint through it at him and resist the urge to yell. There was no way I was getting any sleep now. The only advantage of the light was that I could actually see him now rather than a blurry shadow. His shirt is creased, his hair looks a mess and I can see he's got a fresh cut on his lip. But that's not what my brain hops to first, it's the anger locked tightly into his jaw.

"Finnick?" I start but he interrupts me as he closes the door behind him and crosses the room to where I'm sat so I keep silent and let him speak,

"What the hell did you just do?" He starts, pacing the length of my room. I can smell the alcohol off him from here,

"The chariots?" I say, creasing my brow in confusion, he stops moving,

"I know that. I'm talking about what you _did._ " I look even more confused so elaborates,

"You went out practically naked-" he starts and despite the glint of genuine worry in his expression, I scoff, looking him up and down,

"That's rich coming from you."

The irritation returns to his face and he comes closer, so that I can see the dark circles forming under his eyes,

"You have no idea what you're talking about Freya-"

"I know that you couldn't be bothered to show up to the chariots because you were too busy with some Capitol woman that gave you the eye, I know that you haven't done anything useful as a mentor since we got here, and I know that you're not exactly the authority on decency!" I say, letting all my stress and confusion out in one burst. I expect Finnick to yell or something because I'd never spoken to an adult like that before back at Medler house without getting screamed at or worse. But he doesn't, instead his face crumples for a moment before he turns to me again speaking like what he's saying is the most important thing I will ever hear,

"Once you choose who you are you can't go back. They're always going to see you like they did tonight, that's never going to stop." He says and I can't see what he means,

"They liked me tonight. That means I might get a sponsor-" I say but instead of looking supportive Finnick looks more and more distant... he looks frightened, and that terrifies me even more than the girl from two, "Sponsors are good, right?" I finish and don't receive a reply. That makes it worse and I can't help but feel like I've just made a massive mistake but then something positive springs to my mind,

"The careers want an alliance with me. That's got to be something I did right?" I say, trying to stare a positive attitude into Finnick. For a moment I think it's going to work but his expression only changes from worry to complete focus as he places his hands on my shoulders,

"Listen to me, everything you do now has to be innocent. Okay? No more shells or kisses or anything." He instructs. I put it down to him being under the influence, I mean everyone else was so pleased with the reaction... well except for Brian and possibly Clara. _No, it worked and it's going to keep working just like it did for Finnick._ Despite this I nod anyway to get him to let go of my shoulders but he only squeezes tighter,

"Ow!" I complain, tugging back,

"You're lying. Swear to me-"

"Get off my shoulders you-"

"Swear. _"_ He repeats and I do,

"Fine, I swear." I lie, and he lets me go. A terribly awkward silence descends on us and I force myself to break it,

"If you're going to get me to do this, you have to do something too-" I say, starting to bargain. A cocky smile slips back onto Finnick's face and I'm glad to not have to suffer his erratic mood again, even if this persona doesn't seem one hundred percent genuine,

"-And what would that be?" He says, my answer is immediate,

"Swear you'll get me back to four-" I think for a second whilst the smile drops from his lips, "-That doesn't include in a coffin, or an urn." I correct. The playfulness has left the conversation once Finnick replies,

"You know I can't do that." He says simply, standing back up to his full height and heads towards the door. Tears prick my eyes at the lack of any regret or sadness in his voice. He's probably used to his tributes not always making it home. Especially if they were like me. Not a career or volunteer. I'm waiting for him to leave so that I can cry myself out but he stops with his hand over the light switch.

"But I'm going to try everything I can." he says and switches out the light. Still I'm not content so I whisper through the darkness,

"Promise?"

The reply is instant and there's no forced charm detectable,

"Promise."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi! hope you all enjoy this chapter! I'm not really sure about how to continue this story so if you're interested or have any ideas feel free to message or review! I know this chapter is short but I hope to update soon with something a little more focused on getting towards the games. Enjoy!**

Their muttered voices reach me from across the training room before I see them. The girl from two, Blythe, seems to be leading the conversation and occasionally pauses to take a long glance towards where I sit, cross legged by the survival station. I had been turning over the prospect of an alliance with the careers in my head all night long. That and the fact that I now had Finnick Odair promising to get me home. I couldn't figure out why. Why had I suddenly earned his attention and allegiance? In spite of this other large question mark in my life I had other allegiances to wonder about. The careers. Should I trust them or is that a horrible idea? That question was the most prevalent in my mind. Despite this, I had come to no real conclusion. I had little to no fighting skills, only running and hiding skills acquired from a lifetime of living in Medler house. This meant I held no actual benefit to them, unless the games this year were just a massive game of hide and seek. In which case, I would be the go-to-girl. But, then again if I joined them perhaps there was less chance of being killed outright in the blood bath, so then I should agree wit, but if I do I'm leaving Brian to die on his own. I promised I wouldn't do that...

"You're never going to get a fire started like that." The trainer quips from over my shoulder, drawing my attention away from the career pack and to my hands which are clenching two sticks so tightly they look like they're about to snap. I immediately release them and turn my eyes back to the instruction manual,

"Sorry, I was distracted." I mumble back and stare in defeat at my log which is very much not on fire, unlike Brian's. He sits opposite me and tends carefully to his own small camp-site. It's probably the only impressive thing he's done since we got here, so why does it irritate me that he can do something that I can't?Oh right, it's the sniggers constantly being emitted from the spear station. I set the manual back down and turn my attention to the careers again. They've been station hopping since we got here; first knives, then axes,and now spears. They are all impressive talents and qualities that a victor should have. Not like the survival station that Brian and I had been sat at for hours, and I wasn't even remotely good at it. It irritates me even more when Brian tries to offer to help.

"I could show you how to do it, if you want me to?" He says and I can see the flames reflecting in his muddy grey eyes. I want to know how to build a fire. It would be useful but I cannot quite swallow my pride enough to do it.

"I'm alright, thanks. I'm going to go and check out the swords." I say, mustering up my nicest tone so it seems like I'm merely curious about a weapon. The reality is, the sword station is the only one the careers haven't visited and I'm damn well going to show them that they don't get to have the whole training area to themselves. So, without thinking about the consequences I gladly leave the survival station and cross the training room to where I find a Capitol professional ready to spar. He's slightly older than most of the assistants here, but is just as big. It doesn't matter much though as I'm glad when his voice fills the silence I've stepped into.

"You ever held a sword before, Four?"He asks from where he towers over me. I shake my head. He smiles,

"Better get ready then. It's harder than it looks." he says and hands me the smallest one on the rack. It's small, silver and most importantly sharp. But, the second it's placed into my hands the weight of it makes me feel unbalanced. The trainer advises me to swing it around a little and find the correct rhythm for each movement. After a few minutes of aimless jabs and slices my wrists begin to understand, somewhat, which way the sword will go and how hard to swing. I am by no means half as good as the careers but I decide to pursue into a sparring match almost immediately. Even the professional seems doubtful but he has to cooperate and takes me into a small glass room. Glass so that everyone can see us, of course. I catch Blythe's eye and those of several game-makers too. Now is not the time to mess up.

"Ready, Four?" He asks, settling into a fighting stance. I copy him and do the same thing with my feet,

"As I'll ever be." I call back and a laugh begins to form on his face. I take his distraction as what will probably be my only advantage and dart forwards quickly. My swing is strong but has no control whatsoever, he blocks it easily and pushes my sword away so hard I have to stumble backwards to regain my balance. After that he keeps swinging, seemingly unamused at my unfair start. At first I'm simply terrified and do my best to parry his every blow. Then I see that his features have been twisted into something brutal and merciless and become terrified _and_ exhausted. He's far too strong for me, I had never even held a real sword until a few moments ago. At least, not one so heavy. Clara and I had two wooden swords at Medler House. They'd been donated to the house eight years ago after Finnick's win as a sign of goodwill by the Capitol. When we had played with them it was for fun, something to distract us from our terrible reality. But wood is not the same as metal, and I cannot hold out much longer, so I throw my sword to the floor with a metallic clamber and lift my hands in defeat before he takes my head off.

"Don't go too easy on me." I breath out raggedly and step back dodging out of the way of my partners final strike. He laughs this time, properly. Only there is not a note of sympathy in it as he bends down to pick up my sword,

"Stick to the fire building next time, kiddo."

That certainly fires up something in my stomach. I can't decide if it's rage, or anger or humiliation. That is until I feel my eyes burning. Definitely humiliation. I do not return to the sword fighting station or the survival one. Instead my feet find their way over to the trident station. They look just as deadly as the swords but twice as complicated. Despite growing up in the fishing district I do not know how to use them. _I bet Finnick would._ But Finnick isn't here. And, I still suck at wielding a weapon. So I try to make a mental list of things I'm good at. I can only get so far with running and hiding. Knife throwing looked too hard but I imagine that wielding one in close quarters couldn't be that difficult. It's just a case of stabbing in the right place. Then there was archery which, again, looked like another public humiliation waiting to happen and that takes me straight back the sword fighting. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms exactly what I didn't want to happen. The careers are all there at the station I'd just abandoned. They're Gathering around the weapons and swinging them like it's easy and I'm just inept. I could easily walk back over to the survival station and take Brian up on is offer of a fire building lesson. It would be far safer. But, that would be accepting defeat. I had to at least try. Anyway, the girl from one is sniggering to her friends and Blythe from two is looking at me as if it's a challenge. I am unable to resist and return to the swords station again.

The careers are actually slightly more terrifying up close. The pair from one are laughing by the time I get to them and the boy from two looks slightly disgusted. He could possibly be just as visually frightening as Blythe with his massive build and broad shoulders. I speak first. It's probably the only advantage I'm going to get. "I don't think we've ever met. I'm Freya." I say and stick my hand out to shake. The girl from one actually returns it, in a forced kind of way. It's almost admirable how much quiet displeasure she can but into such a simple gesture. "Jewel." she returns and gestures to her partner, "- and this is Lux. You're the one that wants the alliance. Right?" I stare up into her features. They're all sort of squished towards the centre with neatly arranged light freckles on each cheek. It must've been surgical. I nod, "I was offered." Blythe cuts in then. She's the one that scares me the most as the long scar ,that extends from her temple to her cheek, curves as she smiles sweetly,

"On one condition." She quips. I realise that I have become the subject of a joke. That carrying on with this conversation will undoubtedly lead to something very bad happening. But, again, I cannot resist the challenge. Anything is better than looking like a coward. I glance back over my shoulder at Brian who has graduated from fire building to cooking. "What condition?" I say, my voice sounds a lot stronger than I feel. Blythe looks even more pleased, if that's possible, that I have taken her bait.

"We can't just take you on because you wore some pretty shells last night. We need to know what you're like with a weapon." she starts, I take a look at the swords and shrug,

"Fine." She nods in the direction of the rack and I pick the small sword I had from a moment ago. The handle is still warm. She follows suit and grabs a far larger, curved one. Almost like a sickle. Trying not to let the sword shake in my hands is difficult but I manage to keep my nerves under control whilst we enter the sparring room. After all she can't kill me before the games start. Right?

"You're sure about this? I would hate to ruin that pretty face." She grins, getting in to a fighting stance. I copy her and send a smile back,

"I don't know, I hear scars are _very_ in this season..." Her face twists into a scowl before she takes the first hit. _Why would I decide that now was a good time for sarcasm?_ The sound of metal screeches from where our weapons collide. It's a horrible sound, I would cover my ears if I could but I know that if I did that she would take my head off. The look on her face is enough to show that. She is _furious_. Her attack shows that as it is relentless and skilled. Each swipe means something, like she's either aiming for my kidney or my heart, or even my throat. Which, for a sword as large as that, is pretty impressive. I dodge as best I can but after only a couple of knocks she moves forwards faster than I had anticipated and throws me to the ground. I know I'm no expert but I can move quickly and do know the basic rules of parrying so I take the defensive in order to survive. However, there's only so much defence you can do on the ground so when she leans in over my chest I do the only thing that feels natural and kick her as hard as I can with my boots. Originally I aim for her chest but end up hitting her in the face. There is no time to assess the extent of her injuries because the second I've stood up again she is back. Hammering away at my sword once again. She slices faster, clearly angry at what I had done to her in front of the other careers. And to my own credit I hold out for far longer than the first time. In fact I have counted at least twenty three hits before a trainer enters the room and steps between us. That time she had got a little too close, I only realise that when I'm escorted to the medical centre. She'd nicked my arm. It wasn't too deep and looked innocent at first, an accident. I had riled her up right before we started. That's what happens in fights. But , on further inspection I realise that the cut is suspiciously placed a little too close to my veins. It's as they take me back up to floor four that I decide maybe an alliance with the careers was a bad idea after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for reading, if you have made it all the way to chapter 5 congrats! I'm beginning to really get into writing this story myself and that is mainly due to my amazing beta ,SelfiesWithSprinkles This chapter is for you! R &R!**

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If one thing came out of the sparring match with Blythe, it was a reputation.

I was no longer the doomed tribute from Four. That role was now Brian's exclusively. I wasn't a champion either. I was just a normal tribute now. Completely average. To the normal careers from Four, this is the worst thing that could possibly happen. In order to win, you need to be noticeable. That's common knowledge. Yet, to me, it was an amazing victory.  
Everything I did, whether it was training, or talking, or posing, was average-bordering-on-tedious. That took skill to achieve. Interviews, appearances, even my training score. Twelve was the highest possible score, the same score that Marina said we should all be _'reaching for!'_ She said that every single morning before Brian and I forced ourselves downstairs to training, like one of those irritating birds that just sing on, and on, and on whilst you try to sleep. As if our incompetence was due to lack of effort rather than lack of any training.  
Still, I didn't really try too hard in the fighting department after Blythe. The day after our little 'scuffle' her face boasted a large plum coloured bruise which lay dangerously close to her nose. It meant that as well as having every other career glare at me, she took to obsessively firing knife after knife into a training dummy whilst looking back at my bruise free face every free moment that she got. It doesn't really take a genius to figure out who she will want dead the second the gong goes off.

And, although being the centre of the careers' attention was a small victory for me, the sheer extent of hatred in each of Blythe's throws was enough to put me off trying to spar again. That, and the fact that she hit the target every time. Instead, my now very limited number of training options led me to the poisonous plant index. My new favourite book. Sure, it wasn't the most impressive skill, but poison can kill a person a lot faster than building a fire can.

By the end of the week I was resting on a solid six. If the circumstances were different and I was watching the games at home with Clara, we would have both scoffed at the projector when my score was presented. Tributes from Four don't get sixes. They just don't. I guess I must be a special exception. But I was lucky to even get that in the end. All I'd done during my one-on-one session was slice a sword through a few dummies until the gamemakers looked suitably bored. It was my last chance to handle a weapon until the games begin, so I had to take it.  
After that, I just returned back upstairs to floor four, not feeling any immediate shame for my performance. Not everyone was so easily placated. The look on Marina's face showed she was devoid of all hope for both Brian and myself. My stylists aren't all that interested, as they are far too busy chattering about what I will wear for the interview. Finnick isn't even present when the scores are given out. I'm not really even sure why that left me feeling almost betrayed, until I remember the promise he had made to me. To try everything to bring me home. Stupidly, I had thought his words were laced with sincerity. Only now do I realise that the words sincerity and Finnick Odair simply do not mix. I was officially on my own again. _Again_.

It's Fenwick that snaps me out of my thoughts, when she wraps a thin hand over my shoulder. I'm confused. Maybe it's a sign of comfort or solidarity? Whilst a six may have been a win for me, it spelled certain death for everyone that actually enjoyed the games. They were used to their favourites winning and their favourites always had high scores.  
I'm about to try and show my thanks, although I really have none, when the projector commands my attention again. Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are laughing uncontrollably about something on the screen. They're cackling so hard you would think one would sprout a wart and a pointy hat. It takes me a moment to make out what Claudius is saying between his wheezy, choked coughs, but when I figure it out, I want to strangle them both. _'The twins of District Four'_ is the basis of their joke. Brian and I are pictured side by side with a large floating six on each of our pictures. Sure, the two from twelve had done even worse, with scores of three and four, but that was to be expected. They were from twelve. Four usually did well every single year, which made Brian and I the punchline of one big joke.  
"Off to bed, you two! You have a very busy day tomorrow, and it will take quite a bit to get us back on track..." Marina squeaks, hopping off the couch in her pointed little shoes. I can't tell if she's doing it to save us some pain or if she's too mortified to keep watching. I'm guessing the latter.

It doesn't work immediately, though, as Brian is stuck in a stupor of what looks like shame. It only takes one look at his expression and I know exactly what he's thinking. _What will our families be feeling when they see this? His parents, and my only friend?_ I had made a promise that I would come home. A score of six isn't exactly the comfort I wanted to send to Clara.  
Aspen, the female mentor from Four, begins to speak quietly to Brian under her breath. She takes his arms and tries to lead his sniffling form out of the room. Nobody offers me the same comfort, unless you count Fenwick and the rest of my prep team, who are simultaneously emitting sounds of false empathy and sniggering amongst themselves. My hands tighten around the arms of the couch as if I am rooting myself to it. That is, until we hear the sound of the elevator ping open.

Finnick waltzes out of it. His hair is just ruffled enough for suspicions to be raised, but where he has been isn't what destroys my final nerve. No, that only happens when he takes one look at the screen, laughs, and says, "What did you do, take a nap in-front of the gamemakers?" All of them fall into fits of laughter, including Fenwick, who, after a moment's hesitation, removes her hand from my shoulder to join in.  
I should have measured my response. Thought about the fact that clearly I am on Marina's last nerve, or that the haze in Finnick's eyes suggests he is not entirely sober. But embarrassment, fear, and fury swirl into a vicious cocktail at the bottom of my throat, and I can no longer control my words. My eyes find themselves staring directly into Finnick's face which is still maintaining an unapologetic smirk with two obvious lipstick stains either side of his lips.  
"You think you're better than me? You're nothing but a murder and a..." My voice falters as the entirety of the room falls into a dead silence, but it doesn't stop me, "- a _slut._ "

I know I've gone too far. That what I have said has hit a nerve. It's safe to say that Finnick's smirk has been wiped clean off his face, leaving something unreadable in it's place. I don't have long to examine his look, because the whole room erupts into a screaming match. I say match, but that suggests that there are two sides fighting.  
That's not happening here. I am as silent as a stone. My tongue has died in my mouth at the spectacle of hearing five different Capitol accents all yell at once in defence of Finnick. I'm unsure if fear or laughter is the appropriate response to the whole disaster until Marina makes a move towards me. It strikes me then how much scarier Capitol people are up close. Green corkscrewed curls vibrate with anger as her porcelain hand grabs my forearm.  
"Well," she huffs dragging me closer to Finnick. "I think you owe your mentor an apology."  
This is the point where I should listen to her and apologise, whether I mean it or not, to get out of the mess I've created. But, just like when I decided to rise to the bait of the Careers, pride wins out over intellect. I press my lips into a thin line and shake my head, staring determinedly at the lampshade behind Finnick's shoulder. Marina digs her clawed hands into my arm so hard that I'm almost certain she will draw blood. " _Now._ " she pipes in a tone that is sickly sweet. I'm about to cave when Finnick suddenly finds his voice.

"I'll deal with her. After all, we've only got tomorrow night left," he assures Marina. I'm still watching the lamp, so it's anyone's guess what sort of look he is giving her, but whatever he's doing, it works. Marina gives me one final death squeeze. A warning, and then lets me go entirely.  
"Thank the heavens for that," she says, unable to let me go without one final dig. In return, I rub my forearm accusingly, although I'm not sure why. There's more chance of Brian winning the games than me receiving any sympathy here.

Finnick turns on his heel and leaves the lounge with me following a few paces behind. My pace is deliberately slow so that I can pick up fragments of the outraged conversation Marina is starting with my stylists. I manage to hear her fume about how ungrateful and wicked I am. _She will enjoy watching me die, maybe even more than Blythe will enjoy killing me._  
I think bitterly as I watch the patterns on the carpet blurring beneath my feet. Should I be forming an apology to Finnick? Probably. I didn't exactly adore him, especially at present, but it was hard not to feel like a bit of an ass after the low blow I just took. My life, or what little remains of it, is such a mess. I half wish I could just be in the arena now to get away from the inevitable conversation I'm about to have.  
Finnick stops walking just outside the door to my room. I pause too, expecting him to do something, but he doesn't. Then, after a few moments, when I still don't get it, he sends a long look between myself and the keypad.  
"You already know it," I say, thinking back on the night he stormed into my room after the chariots. It turns out that mentors are given the code to their tributes rooms every year, because locked rooms present problems, especially for the more terrified of us. After all, it would be bad showmanship to turn up to the Capitol with a dead tribute. Finnick doesn't respond to me, so I reluctantly step past him and thumb in the code.

For a very real moment I'm afraid that Finnick is just going to turn on his heel and leave me again the second I've entered the room. At present, I am sure that he's not the kind of person I would get along with back in Four. That being said, there's only a handful of people I like: Clara, the fishmonger who sometimes trades me fish if I can find a nice enough shell on the beach, and Brent who works at Medler house. He's only nineteen, and is alright most of the time. I only really decided to like him when he taught me to swim a few years ago. He tried to teach Clara too, but she's terrified of water, always screaming and running away any time we try to dunk her into the sea. Not that that happens often. Most of the time we're stuck inside with the occasional reassuring smile being the only thing Brent can offer to us.  
I'll never see that ever again. Or swim again. Or talk to Clara again. _**Ever**_. It's stupid and the exact thing that I hate to do when tears spring to my eyes very much uninvited. Normally I would wipe them away or cover my face, but Claudius Templesmith's laughter is still ringing in my ears. I no longer have the will to hold them back. And, even if I did, what would the point be? The second Clara sees my score she'll know that my final promise to her was a lie. It's not that I don't want to win, it's that I just can't. I can't.

"I'm sorry." Finnick's words cut through my sniffs.

It takes a moment for the laughing to fade away, and I'm fairly sure he has to say it more than once before I hear him properly. I was the one supposed to be apologising. Or at least, that's what Marina would say. My confusion works it's way onto my face and Finnick elaborates. "Training scores don't matter. It's about what you do in the arena," he explains.  
Why is he being so reassuring all of a sudden? My feet find their way from the middle of the room to the edge of my bed. I sit on it carefully and try to make sense of what Finnick is saying. By the time he's settled into the chair by the door my brain has come to it's conclusion.  
"They all hate me," I say, thinking back to Marina's nails digging into my arms. Finnick shrugs.

"You don't need them to like you," he says, combing his hair back into normality with his fingers.

"Yes. I do," I reply, looking at him as if he's mad. He stares right back.

"They didn't like Joanna before she went in," he comments, as if it will bring me any level of comfort.

"I'm not like her," I reply immediately, thinking about the murderer she became so quickly. Sure, I'd probably kill if it came down to it, but not like that. Not like her. Finnick, however, can't seem to read that correctly, or he just doesn't believe me, as he leans back into the chair begins to list off his fingers.

"Lets see... you both can't comprehend the idea of subtlety, and you're not too great with biting your tongue, you didn't get career training scores, you're immune to my charms..." I stop him with a sigh.

"What's your point?"

He considers it for a second before sobering up. "My point is that you have got a chance."

I think he actually means what he's saying. That a scrawny kid from Medler house will somehow defy the odds and beat the games. It all sounds too much like the ending of a story book. Like a lie. But not many people in the Capitol are merciful enough to lie to me at present, so I decide to let some false hope into my life. After all, it can't get much worse, especially after the events of tonight. I mark Finnick as an ally in my head. A mostly absent but occasionally alright ally.  
"When I come back, can I fire Marina?" I ask, putting on a bravado. It's seemingly infectious as Finnick perks up a bit too,

"When you come back she'll adore you. Trust me," he says, rolling his eyes.

A disturbing image of Marina and I in matching curled green wigs thrusts itself into the forefront of my vision. But I laugh, the first real laugh I've had since I got here. I do find it strange that it's happening with the same person that I hated with a passion under an hour ago, but when you can count the days you have left to laugh on your fingers you take humour wherever you can find it. Something else hits me mid-laugh. For all the smiles and cheer I had seen Finnick partaking in since we got here, this seems to be his first real one, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello! sorry it's been a while since my last update but here it is! This will be the final chapter before the games begin, so it's really starting to hot up now for Freya which has been interesting to write. Also a massive thank you to my amazing beta -** SelfiesWithSprinkles **who continues to make this fic an absolute joy to write! Enjoy! and reviews are totally welcome!**

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When I woke up the next morning Finnick was gone. There was no trace of him, not in the sitting room or the kitchen, or anywhere. I didn't have to rack my brains too much to figure out where he was or who he was with, and, although I don't know him half as well as other people, his occupation irks me. I mean, what I said last night had clearly affected him. I don't know in what way exactly but something about him vanishing for long stretches of the day, every day, didn't quite sit right with me. And if I had any spare time on my hands, maybe I would've sat down to think about the whole thing. In a vague attempt to try to figure him out.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. My schedule was jam-packed, since Caesar's interview was starting in a mere matter of hours. This was a huge deal in the Capitol, because it was more personal for the patrons in the audience. Whoever they see me as tonight is the narrative I will have to follow for the entirety of my games, however short or long that stretch of time may be. This meant that every second of my time had to be devoted to hair and make-up. Originally, I thought I didn't mind the whole affair too much. Sure, sometimes my prep team pulled slightly too hard on the braids they were carefully arranging on my scalp, but the end result was always beautiful. After all, it had all worked out for me last time. Sort of.

Tonight wasn't the same. My prep team were beyond flustered. The would keep starting to apply fine layers of make-up to my face before Fenwick snapped something and all their good work was erased. So, they would start again with another pretty shell decal or some sand, but inevitably it would be wiped away in under ten minutes, accompanied with a frustrated sigh. Normally, I would keep quiet and stick to letting the prep team get on with whatever it was they were attempting to do, but with under an hour to go until we start I force myself to speak up.  
"Am I doing something wrong?" I say. It's a good icebreaker, I think. Not too forceful but not too nonchalant.

My prep team ignores me and continue to work on my face. It doesn't matter though, as Fenwick is the one I was talking to. She stares at my reflection in the mirror and sighs deeply, as if she's in actual pain.  
"Yes, I'm afraid it is you, darling. You see, everything here is wrong. Your face, your hair, your nails. . ." She lists my faults in a weary voice, drawing closer to my chair.

That certainly wasn't the answer I was hoping for and I'm about to say something awful back when an idea spreads over Fenwick's green, worn out face that stops me in my tracks. She pauses mid sigh and clicks her clawed fingers twice. I have no clue as to what that means, but my prep team obviously do, as they leave immediately. Now in a highly uncomfortable position I can do nothing but watch as Fenwick draws closer to my chair. She holds her tongue until the door clicks closed and she's sure we're alone.

"The night of the chariots was a success, do you agree?" Fenwick asks. Her voice is a low whisper, yet the Capitol accent still shines through. Initially it's strange tone and her pronunciation distracts me, but I force myself to focus on the task at hand.

It was successful, I guess... I mean, the people were cheering. That was a good thing, right? I find myself nodding before I fully think things through.

"I do," I say, clinging to the memories of the crowd cheering my name, and not the little balding man that looked everywhere except my eyes.

Fenwick lets a small smile begin to form on her face at my answer before she walks over to two clothes bags hung neatly on the wall. Carefully, she unzips the first one. I wish she hadn't; sequins and glitter spring free of the bag right away. It's horrific; a long frock that explodes, with far too many colours, which reflect light so brightly from every inch of it's fabric I instinctively raise my hands to my eyes.

Fenwick sighs in agreement, "Exactly. This thing-" She takes a moment to glare at the fashion disaster "-is what your mentor wanted you to wear."  
Finnick wanted me to put this on? What was he thinking? Did he want me to be even more humiliated than I was already? I struggle to see his logic during the few seconds it takes Fenwick to unzip the other dress. Then Finnick's motives become crystal clear.

The alternative was equally horrific in it's own unique way. I wasn't being covered in shells time. No, this time scales were Fenwick's focus. Not the large and bulky kind that you would find on any normal fish. These were smooth and thin. I know right away that it will hide just as little as the shell dress and draw just as much attention, if not more than I received at the chariots.

So there I have it. The choice to either go out on stage and get humiliated, resulting in no sponsors during the games, or break my promise to Finnick and do what Fenwick wants me to do. What the Capitol wants me to. It probably means I'm a bad person when I make my decision as quickly as I do, but no sponsors means death in the arena, and there's already far too much chance of that happening for me as it is. At least Fenwick is pleased as she grabs the scaled dress, zips me up quickly, and wastes no time applying layers of dark make-up to my eyes.

The prep team arrive almost out of nowhere amidst the last minute madness and happily gets to work on slicking my hair back so that it is banished from getting anywhere near my face. That I don't like because it means I will have nothing to hide behind when Finnick sees me take to the stage. I had promised him I would never do anything like this again. Promises were supposed to be sacred, so what kind of person would I be if I broke it? The swirling feeling of guilt begins to root itself deep into my stomach and I'm almost considering changing my mind when I remind myself that I'm doing this for sponsors in order to get home to Clara, not for my own vanity. Anyway, if Finnick didn't want me to do this, he shouldn't have picked such a horrific dress.

I don't give myself any more time to dwell on the subject. Instead, I focus on my angle which now, due to my attire, had to be sexy. I was a siren, after all, and that's pretty much all they're good for. Well, that and singing or drowning sailors to their death, and there's no way I could do either of those things on live television. So I stick to sexy, although it's already hard to do as Fenwick leads me down the hall to the wings of the main stage.

The crowd has already started cheering and squealing with excitement as Caesar struts out into the lights, so I struggle to make out that Fenwick is trying to speak to me. It's only after she jabs me in the ribs with her pointy elbow that my attention is drawn to what she is saying.

"This is my best creation yet, so do not let me down. And don't forget to smile!" she instructs, fixing my hair one final time. They're not the most comforting words in the world, but they serve to give me something other than my crushing stage fright to focus on.

With one final nod I'm ushered away from my prep team to the line of tributes. I don't officially look the worst, that award goes to the pair from twelve who have been covered in coal dust yet again, but my look doesn't go completely undetected

Blythe smirks from where she stands at the top of the line. Again, her costume is wearable. It's a simple silver dress that doesn't particularly overwhelm or underwhelm. I think that her stylists picked it to highlight the scar on her face and not throw the murderous, maniac part of her too hard at the audience. At least, not yet. Still, I am jealous of her. She gets to keep her dignity whilst I'm forced to leave mine in the dressing room.

Luckily, the buzzer goes off backstage and she heads on before any words can be exchanged between us. That's probably for the better. But instead of getting Blythe out of my head, I watch her interview obsessively, unsure as to whether or not I'm doing it to pick up tips on how to act or to just observe her. A few sentences into the interview I become bored.

Nothing much is really going on. I mean, she smiles and laughs in all the right places but it's hardly memorable stuff. . . until Caesar points something out.

"Now, I had noticed you have a rather captivating scar, and I'm sure there's an interesting story behind it. . ." Caesar says. Blythe nods, about to indulge the Capitol in what exactly had happened, but Caesar cuts in again. "But what about that bruise? That certainly wasn't there when you arrived," he says, knitting his yellow eyebrows in concern.

My stomach drops. If she rats me out, will I be dragged off by peacekeepers for breaking the rules? Butterflies return to my stomach full force as I wait for her reply. She doesn't hesitate to name me right away.

"Freya Medler happened." The crowd offers a gasp as if this is the most scandalous thing they've heard all night, and so do I.

Tributes very rarely mentioned each other on-stage unless they're siblings or lovers. You only get two minutes, so why would you want to spend it promoting somebody else to the potential sponsors out there? Blythe must have some sort of plan, though, as she stops their gasp almost as soon as it happens with a small laugh. "You should see her in the training room, Caesar- the girl is an oaf. I offered to spar with her, to help, because she didn't look so good-"  
"That was very kind of you. . ." Caesar comments, and the crowd nods in agreement. Blythe merely shakes her head.  
"Too kind. She caught me with the butt of a sword when my back was turned. Completely unfair. I guess it was the only way she thought she could win. . ."

This comment is met with a round of boos and cries about my unjust behaviour. My hands ball into fists by my sides. Yes, I was getting attention from the crowd, but it's the worst kind. Who would want to sponsor me now? I have half the mind to storm the stage and add to the bruise collection I had already started on Blythe's face. There was no way we were allying now. Caesar reigns the crowd in as the interview draws to a close.

"That's a terrible shame. But if, say, you had a chance to speak to Freya Medler tonight what would you say?"

"I would tell her she's going to wish she never even picked up that sword."

The crowd burst to life with roars of approval in sync with the buzzer signalling that Blythe's interview has ended. They loved nothing more than confrontation and drama, and that's exactly what they had just been given. The career from Two versus the girl with a training score of six. I wonder who will win that one. . .  
My eyes do not meet Blythe's as she saunters past, snickering some kind of insult in my general direction. I'm afraid that if I do look up at her, I'll do something stupid, like punch her, or cry. Or both.

It's Brian's hand that snaps me out of it as he waves it just under my nose. I look up at him to find he's covered from the waist down in a scaly skirt, with a thin white cape that hangs off his shoulders. I only wish I had the same thing to hide behind.

"We all saw what you did in the training room. She's just jealous," he assures me. And although it's coming from the same person that I usually feel pitiful for, his

comment helps me to hold back the frustrated sob that has been forming in the back of my throat.

"They don't know that." I half scowl, imagining the cold reception I will get on stage. Brian rolls his muddy eyes,

"They don't know much in general. Just. . ." He recites the first thing I ever said to him: "don't cry."

I can't help but smile at that one, and make a big deal of wiping my eyes as carefully as possible, so as to not smudge my make-up. If that happened, Fenwick would kill me long before Blythe could. Brian nods, smiling back.

"You're up." He's right. The other interviews have flown past being only two minutes each.

My feet are moving, before my brain can kick into action, onto the stage. It's bright there. Brighter than that terrible dress, and the crowd is going wild. I think it's more for my dress than for me as a human, but I'll take what I can get, and wave back happily. Smile! Fenwick's words burst into my head, and I plaster one onto my face so hard that by the time Caesar has taken my hand and led me to my chair my cheeks are screaming in pain.

"Freya Medler, everybody! Or should I say, the siren of District Four! Move over Finnick Odair, someone is coming to steal your limelight. . ." Caesar teases, looking out into the crowd until he spots Finnick sitting in the mentors box. From the charming smile on his face and false bravado of shaking his fist at me in mock anger, you would think Finnick was game with this whole thing. That my dress was all part of our plan. But, I can see past his fake smile and know that right now he's probably focusing on the lecture he will no doubt spring on me the second my interview ends. Luckily, Caesar quickly loses interest, before I can feel too guilty, and directs his attention back to me.

"So, Freya I'm sure that everyone here is wondering what exactly you think about the little drama that happened earlier on tonight with Blythe from District Two and what she said. . ." he starts, expecting me to say something just as threatening as Blythe's final words. The crowd holds their breath in anticipation, probably hoping for the same thing too, which gives me that little bit of confidence I need to be sarcastic back.

"She said something? I wasn't really watching her interview. There was some paint drying on the wall that was slightly more interesting, so. . ."

That certainly riled them up. Some people snort with laughter whilst the others keep their eyes glued to the stage, eager for more drama. Blythe will probably have murdered me this time tomorrow. I might as well give her a good enough cause to do that.

"Well, I see you have made your stand clear on that topic! I'm sure we'll see a conclusion to all of this in the arena," says Caesar. I shift slightly in my chair.

"You can bet on that." My answer is quiet, more of a mumble than a response, but the mics littered around the City Circle pick it up. The mood quietens. They feel sorry for me. I guess we all know that no matter how much drama and scandal is packed into this little feud between Blythe and I, the outcome is inevitable. Careers always win. Sensing the sombre mood, Caesar, ever the professional, changes the topic.

"Well, that's enough about other people. Let's go back to you, Freya. To the moment you were picked. Can you tell us what that felt like?"

"Surprising." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Caesar laughs and the crowd begins to join in, too. He raises his eyebrows as if to urge me on, so I continue.

"It's only my third year, so I wasn't exactly betting on getting picked. But, here I am." I smile just like Fenwick instructed, as if I am pleased at this outcome.

"Here you are indeed, and we're so glad to have you." Caesar smiles. "Now, as you mentioned earlier, you're from Medler House, one of the many charities founded by President Snow." Caesar sends a grateful nod in Snow's direction.

I hadn't noticed he was watching. I wonder if he even knows how awful the houses really are. Probably does, I remind myself, he is the one that allows the games every year. It wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to assume he doesn't really care about the lives of his citizens. Especially the ones like me.

The crowd seem pleased, so Caesar keeps going. "Is there anyone, Freya, from Medler house that you will be trying to come home for? A friend? A boyfriend, perhaps. . ." I cut off his suggestiveness with my answer.

"Clara. She's my best friend."

"The girl you were with at the reaping?" Caesar supplies, and I nod. "What did you say to her before you left? A final goodbye-"

"She wouldn't let me do that," I say, thinking back on how she was so convinced I would be the one to win. A lot more convinced that I was myself, or am, for that matter.

"Why not?" Caesar implores. This is it. These are the final moments before my interview ends so I choose my words carefully, aiming for maximum impact.

"Because I'm going to make it back to Four."

There's a brief moment between my words being projected around the City Circle and the buzzer going off where you could hear a pin drop on stage. I think I might actually believe what I had said for the first time since my name was called. And, because I believed it, the crowd might just have too.

It's not a moment I get to savour for too long, before I'm ushered off stage so that Brian can take my place. Backstage is nicer. It's not as hot here, and the only people who are watching me are my prep team. They are very pleased indeed, especially Fenwick, who just keeps throwing the word _"gorgeous"_ in my direction.  
But, I wasn't trying to be gorgeous or radiant. I was aiming for something a little deeper than that. To show the Capitol and Clara that I meant it. That I was going to come home. Blythe or no Blythe. It was going to be me.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Bet you thought you had seen the last of me! I can't deny that there may have been a slight break taken here and there in regards to this story... but I'm back now! Hope you all enjoy and leave your thoughts!**

I decide to keep quiet after the interview. To ignore Blythe's quiet sniggering at my sudden burst of confidence, to tune out Brian's interview and certainly to block out the image of betrayal on Finnick's face when he first saw me take to the stage. Because, truthfully, I didn't want to spend the last night of my life mulling over other people's problems instead of the rather huge, glaring one that faced me. In under twenty-four hours I could be dead. Completely gone. Suddenly it's pretty hard to feel bad about a simple risqué dress when you recall that fact.

"Freya you looked absolutely _stunning!_ I just knew I could make this work!" Fenwick's voice bursts into my space as she wraps her clawed hand around my shoulder to twirl me in full view of the other stylists. Some actually seem to be wiping away dainty tears of joy whilst the rest shriek in joy. I force myself to return the smiles and the praises until I am back on floor four. It's easier that way.

The minute the elevator doors close and the rest of my prep team have dissipated I head straight back to my room. It seems that for once I was following Brian's method of excluding myself from the narrative and I have to say it felt good. It felt good to not have to laugh or smile or lie for the sake of everyone else. Or maybe it was just cowardice… _But_ either way the fact remains, I felt remarkably better watching the siren scales swirl down the shower drain. The only problem I faced came after the shower when I had nothing to do but think. Naturally my thoughts turned back to the arena we would face tomorrow. Would it be desert like last year? I hoped not. Bare terrain like that meant nowhere to hide. I was half between a thought on whether or not you could dig a hole in the sand and hide in that for the entirety of the games when I heard a soft knock on the door. _Shit._ My brain immediately goes for Finnick being the one to show up. So I brace myself for the brewing argument and reluctantly crack the door open. Only I'm met with murky grey eyes instead of green.

"Brian?" I ask, opening the door further. He hesitates on the threshold of my room before awkwardly shuffling in.

"Sorry to disturb you." He says quickly. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy. He's been crying.

"It's alright. I was bored anyway." I try to laugh, leaving the door a crack open behind me.

"Bored?" He looks shocked, as if he thinks I haven't even considered the prospect of our looming deaths.

"Well…by bored I mean completely terrified." I quip, attempting to keep my eyes from watering. It seems that Brian's aura is contagious. But, at least he looks slightly less crazed than before, knowing that somebody else actually gets what's going on.

"Yeah, me too." He returns, perching on the side of the bed along with me. He looks like he's debating saying something and from the corner of my eye I can practically see him chewing the words over in his mouth. I give him a few seconds before I call him out.

"You _can_ say it you know. I won't kill you or anything." I sigh, trying to keep a smile on my face for both out sakes.

"You won't?" His voice is quiet and, stupidly, I decide that now is the perfect time to joke about.

"No that part comes tomorrow." I know it's not the least bit funny the second it comes out of my mouth and Brian turns slightly paler.

" _Joking!_ Oh my god. Sorry. I'm so sorry, my comedic timing isn't the best." I gush, turning to face him. He seems shaky but gives a reluctant nod after a few seconds.

"I was going to ask if you still want to ally with me." His words are laced with doubt. I feel awful, knowing in my heart that Brian won't survive. It's obvious to anyone that he's too weak for the arena. That eventually he will become dead weight, just another thing that could get me killed. But I disregard all of that when my reply comes immediately.

"Of-course I do. We're going to protect each other, I swear." It's stupid and I know it is. But, I can't say I regret saying any of it when I see some of the strain seep from Brian's shoulders.

"I swear too." He returns and then we just sit in silence listening to the howls of laughter coming from the Capitol parties lining the streets. It's disgusting. A humiliation so vile that I can't contain the anger that bubbles in my throat.

"I wish it was them." I whisper so quietly only Brian can hear. He doesn't look shocked like I would have expected him to. I guess he's already had a lot of time to go over the atrocities that plagued us. Instead he quietly mulls over my words before responding gently,

"I wish it was nobody." It's an answer of peace. I know he's right in his own way but somehow that does nothing to quell my anger, only riles it up even more. He's kind to them even when they're going to enable his death. I want to answer with a biting remark but I know it won't solve anything so I just shrug and stare straight ahead.

"We should get away from the bloodbath tomorrow." He changes the subject and I'm grateful. "I can find us shelter and we can hide out for a while." He suggests. I shake my head seeing the multitude of problems we face with that idea.

"What about supplies?"

"We can find our own."

"There might not be anything out there." I return, thinking about the year there were no trees or animals. The only supply of anything lay at the foot of the cornucopia. Those were the shortest games in Hunger games history. Brian shakes his head,

"I can't go in there." He decides and I know he's right. He would be killed straight off and then where would I be? I made a promise to protect him.

"I'll do it." My voice comes out stronger than I feel. I know that me going in was probably only slightly less doomed than Brian but we had to take our best shot and unfortunately for both of us that was me.

"I don't know..." Brian shakes his head. So we both know just how bad the plan was. I make a slight amendment.

"I'll only go in if I have to. Then I'll meet you in the shelter." I say, looking him dead in the eyes. They glint with something. Hope...maybe? He nods repeating my plan. He'll cover shelter and I'll take care of supplies and weapons if I can. I'm not too sure if the plan is realistic but it's the best I can think of right now.

After that agreement the choking silence bears down on us again and because I just want to be alone to block the whole thing out I stand up, leading Brian to the door. I wait until he follows suit and try to look as confident as possible before reciting the plan again.

"Supplies, weapons, shelter, hide." I list looking at him for confirmation. He nods and suddenly pulls me into a rushed embrace. I'm shocked to say the least but if it makes him feel any better I can't really complain. So, instead I stand awkwardly trapped in his arms for the few seconds it takes for him to release me.

"S-Sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye. Just in case." He rushes and I stop him with a shake of my head.

"We're going to make it. _Both_ of us. Just believe that and I'll see you tomorrow." My words are strong, trying to force some hope into him. Some confidence that we're not both going to ruthlessly slaughtered tomorrow. I'm not too sure if it works because he averts his eyes to the floor, nods, and walks back down the hall towards his own room in silence. I hope that it was just my imagination when I hear sniffling as I close my door once more.


End file.
